After Roy’s grandfather, whom he called Pops, died, Roy’s mother’s brother, Buck, came north from Florida to Chicago to bury the body. This was in February of 1960, two-day-old dirty snow was piled against the curbs and sidewalks were coated with ice. Pops had been living in a Florida nursing home for a few months prior to his fatal heart attack. Buck had moved his father to Tampa, where he lived with his wife and daughter, with the intention of having Pops live with them, away from the cold weather, but it had been necessary to instead place Pops in an assisted living facility where he could have on-site medical care. Pops had not wanted to leave Chicago, his home for sixty years, but he and his daughter did not get along, so Roy’s uncle assumed responsibility for him.
Following his grandfather’s funeral and burial, Roy, who was fourteen, accompanied his uncle around Chicago to say hello to former business associates of Buck’s and to visit neighborhoods in which his uncle had built houses. Buck was a civil engineer and architect. He had relocated to Tampa two years before where there were more opportunities and fewer building restrictions. He also preferred being in warm weather year-round.
After cruising through the city and adjoining suburbs, Buck parked the car he’d borrowed from his sister in front of a one-story flat-roofed building with a sign on it that read dombroski & son machinery and manufacturing. It was only two-thirty in the afternoon but the sky was already dark and cloudy, threatening snow.
“Why are you stopping here, Unk?”
“There’s a guy I want to see.”
“Dombroski?”
“When I left Chicago he owed me some money. I heard he died. Maybe I can collect from his son.”
“A lot of money?”
“Enough to give it a try.”
“Can I come in with you? It’ll be cold in the car.”
“I’ll leave the engine running with the heater on. This shouldn’t take long.”
Buck got out of the car and entered the building. Roy turned on the radio and listened to the news. Workers at a factory on the south side were on strike and someone got stabbed. The cops arrested two of the strikers and the victim was taken away in an ambulance. The White Sox had traded Chico Carrasquel, their shortstop, to the Cleveland Indians in order to make room for a top prospect, Luís Aparicio. Both players were from Venezuela. Snow was expected to begin falling on the city by four o’clock and continue throughout the night. People were advised to do their grocery shopping early, before the snow accumulated and made getting around difficult.
Roy turned off the radio. Flurries landed on the windshield. Roy had to pee, so he cut the ignition, put the key in a coat pocket, got out of the car, and ran around one side of the Dombroski building into the alley behind it. He urinated against the back wall, hoping nobody would see him. After Roy finished, he hurried back to the car. His uncle was standing next to the driver’s side door. Buck’s curly black hair was littered with white flakes.
“Sorry, Unk. I needed to pee bad.”
He handed the car key to Buck.
“Did Dombroski’s kid fork over what his old man owed?”
“Get in the car and I’ll tell you.”
Buck didn’t say anything until he’d driven a couple of blocks. He turned on the windshield wipers.
“Turns out Dombroski was murdered a year ago. The business was in debt. His son, Buddy, declared bankruptcy. He gave me the phone number of the lawyer who’s handling the claims. It doesn’t matter, though, because his father and I never drew up a paper, it was a private matter.”
“Who murdered him? Someone else he owed money to?”
“Buddy thinks the killer was the husband of a girl Dombroski was playing around with on the side.”
“Is the husband in jail?”
“No. They can’t prove he did it.”
Snow was coming down harder, earlier than they said on the radio it would.
“Women and money, Roy, a man can’t do without them, but there’s always hell to pay.”
“I once heard Pops say, ‘Nobody beats the devil.’ Is that what you mean?”
The snow came at them now from different angles, evading the swiping blades, clinging to the windshield.
“All I know, Roy, is that living is a very dangerous business.”
